“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” Xe pressed. “Our official position is articulated through the organs of state. Xinhua—”
“Comrade Minister Lo,” Fa interjected in a companionable, cheerful tone. “Comrade Chang—she’s yours, really, isn’t she?”
“Mine?” Lo said. “Depends what you mean.” Laughter. A bit too energetic, Gang thought.
Fa said, this time less cheerfully, “Come, come, Lo. I meant she’s Two Bureau. We surely have no secrets here.”
Good, Comrade President! Gang mentally cheered. Through his earphones came the voice of Minister Lo, like the rumble of an animal in its lair stirring to confront a trespasser.
“I am dealing with this matter, Comrade President. Personally. Be assured of this.”
Silence.
“Yes, yes. Well, good. Good,” Fa chittered on like a cricket. “I’m certainly aware of the need for discretion, yes. Oh, yes. You can’t have enough of that. No. Still, I should like to hear a little more about this incident. As I’m sure other members would. When official state policy suddenly turns and spins in a new direction, on a television program, like the needle of a compass—whish, whish, whishhhhh . . .”
Gang thought, No, Comrade, please. No sound effects!
“. . . whishhhh! Oh!” he said. “I am making myself dizzy!”
Strained titters.
“Was this in Chang’s brief, to say what she said?”
“No,” Lo said.
“Oh?” Fa said.
“She was improvising. Without authority. This is not the way we—”
“Improvising!” Fa said with a gooselike honk. “Yes. Women love to improvise. My wife is always improvising.”
Nervous laughter.
Again Gang heard the zippery flip of Fa’s briefing-book pages.
“These headlines,” Fa said. “ ‘China Offers Novel Explanation for Lama Ban’ . . . ‘China Humanitarian Mask a Tight Fit’ . . . ‘China Dalai Position: From Thin Ice to Thin Air.’ By the way, what is this ‘hyperbaric chamber’? I did not understand this. And who is Michael Jackson? Does he truly sleep with monkeys?”
Gang held his breath as these details were explained to the president of the People’s Republic of China.
“Ah,” Fa said. “Him. Yes, yes. I remember. Did he not wear a glove made of metal?”
This detail was confirmed for the president.
“Well, well,” Fa said. “I must say, Comrade Lo . . .” He paused, then said, “I congratulate you warmly on your Comrade Chang!”
Long silence.
“How . . . so, Comrade?” Lo ventured cautiously.
“She is creative! I like that. Yes. By introducing this new element, she has taken away some of the pressure. This is clever. From my reading of this, the Americans may not believe her, but they like her. It says here that she has been invited to be the guest hostess of the American national humorous show, Saturday Night Liver. ‘Liver’? This is a strange name. Is this a comical term?”
Gang bit his lip as this, too, was explained to the president.
“Ah.” Fa laughed self-deprecatingly. “Forgive me, Comrades. Between my eyes and my English, I do not know which is worse. I’ll be needing a cane before long.” He paused, then spoke soberly. “Well, Comrades, let us review. Harsh things are being said against our great country. I am being burned in effigy in, let’s see . . . how many . . . seventeen world capitals? Surely this is a record. Not that I mind. No, no. It is my job to go up in flames. But I wish the effigies were better looking. Look at this one. Comrade Fin, am I truly so homely as this?”
“No, Comrade President. You are much more handsome.”
Nervous laughter.
Fa continued. “Comrade Foreign Minister Wu. The United Nations. How does it go there?”
Foreign Minister Wu Fen cleared his throat. “Quite well. Very well. Zimbabwe, North Korea, Cuba, Venezuela, the Congo, Sudan, Yemen, Syria, Iran have all made strong statements on our behalf.”
“Good. Good,” Fa said. “What wonderful friends we have. But now tell me about these resolutions being introduced in the American Congress. Dear me. These senators in—hmm—Alabama, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee . . . yes, the South—they are vehement in their statements. They want to cut off sales of American wheat. We do need wheat.”
“Posturing, Comrade President,” said Minister Wu. “Cheap politics. These bills that have been introduced have no chance of becoming law. None. The senators from the wheat-producing states are forceful in their opposition. If I may speak in confidence, I have this on the authority of the American secretary of commerce himself. Believe me, he and I have been in regular communication. He assures me that he is most embarrassed about this. What’s more, if such bills were to pass—though they will not—the American president will veto them.”
“I am pleased to hear this, Wu. Well done. Well done. Now, this computer company in Texas—a large one, I see—are they really going to move their assembly plant out of Guangdong to . . . Vietnam? Vietnam! How quickly things change. Thirty-five years ago, they were at each other’s throats. Now it’s ‘Kampai, kampai! Let’s do business!’ What did Lenin say? ‘The capitalists will argue among themselves for the privilege of selling us the rope with which to hang them.’ I like Lenin.”
“It’s only more posturing, Comrade President. More empty threats. When they look at the costs involved, they’ll change their minds. However, it is true,” Wu sniffed, “that the Vietnamese are acting toward us with their usual hostility.”
“Dogs,” said General Han.
Gang reflected that General Han’s hatred of the Vietnamese was exceeded only by his hatred of the Taiwanese, Tibetans, Americans, Russians, Indians, Japanese, and—who else? Ah, yes, Bhutanese. Han despised the Bhutanese.
Lo spoke up. “Comrade President, all this is so much farting in a bamboo forest. Yes, it makes a noise,” Lo said, “but let’s keep our heads clear—”
“And hold our noses?” Fa said. “Ha!”
“My point, Comrade, is that the wind will die down.”
“Yes, yes, Comrade, I’m sure you’re right.”
More shuffling of briefing papers.
“Now, here,” Fa said, “is a headline to strike terror into our hearts. Brace yourselves, Comrades: ‘Motion Picture Association to Vote on Oscar Ban for Chinese Films.’ I confess to you, Comrades, that I had been secretly hoping to be nominated Best Communist in a Leading Role.”
Gang bit his lip, but there came a burst of laughter that sounded genuine.
“You certainly have my vote, Comrade,” the foreign minister said. “Might we discuss your forthcoming visit to the United States?”
“Yes, please,” Fa said. “Imagine how much I am now looking forward to that. What effigies that will inspire.”
“I spoke with the American secretary of state yesterday. She extended the warmest personal wishes.”
“I am very glad of that. I trust you reciprocated?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you tell her—Naughty lady—no more hidden microphones in my limousine?”
Gang groaned.
“She . . .” The foreign minister soldiered on. “She respectfully suggested that under the present circumstances perhaps it would be prudent if your visit were postponed. We could always give as a reason some urgent—”
“But I was looking forward to it,” Fa said. “I have long wanted to visit Disney World.”
“The entire country is Disney World,” Lo said, to much laughter.
The foreign minister added nervously, “She stressed a concern for your security. America is . . . America. Their own presidents have to ride around in armored cars.”
“It is thoughtful of her to care so.”
“The American government has been . . . I am tempted to say admirably restrained in its public comments. They have taken no official position on the Lotus matter.”
“What about their vice president?” General Han grumbled. “Did you not se
e what he said?”
Foreign Minister Wu said, “The vice president’s tongue is several time zones ahead of his brain. This is understood by everyone. No one pays any attention to his utterings. No, Comrades, let us at least give them due credit. And their administration is under considerable pressure by anti-China elements.”
Gang heard the metallic snick of Fa’s cigarette lighter.
“Well, yes,” Fa said, “this has put them in a difficult position. One almost feels sympathy for them.” He quickly added in a jovial tone, “Don’t worry, Lo—I said almost.” Laughter. He said, “So, Comrades, did we do the correct thing, not allowing him back?”
General Han spoke. “With all respect, Comrade, what’s the point in bringing that up now?”
“ ‘The past is the cause of the present,’ ” Fa said. “ ‘And the present will be the cause of the future.’ Abraham Lincoln.” He added, “He was the American president during their Civil War, 1861 to 1865.”
“Thank you,” Han said. “I was aware.”
“So,” Fa said, “do we just continue to ride out the fartstorm, as Comrade Lo has proposed? These matters can take unexpected turns.”
“What choice do we have?” said Deputy Minister Lin. “If we were to back down now—”
“Oh, please, Comrades, let us have no talk of that,” Lo said with impatience. “Do you want full-scale war in the autonomous region? You heard my report. Even the American CIA is trying to restrain these bastards.”
“By the way, Comrade,” Fa said, “might I have a copy of that? It was most interesting.”
Silence.
Lo said, in a tone that struck Gang as forcedly casual, “Of course, but you are acquainted with the contents. It is highly sensitive.”
“Yes,” Fa said pleasantly, “I’m certainly aware of that. But I think you can trust the president and general secretary with it. As you say, it is a troubling document. For this reason I should like to study it. Closely. Have your man bring it to my Comrade Gang. Today, if you would.”
Silence. Gang felt the seconds ticking by.
At length Lo said, “Of course. As to the more urgent matter, may I share a proposition with the committee? A solution?”
Fa said warily, “Yes. Of course.”
“Time is of the essence,” Lo began.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER President Fa returned to his office, pale, sweaty, and limp. He nearly collapsed into Gang’s waiting arms. Gang led him to an armchair, took off his shoes, went to the bathroom, and came back to apply a cold towel to his forehead.
“You heard?” said Fa, stretched diagonally across the Soviet-era armchair, his eyes hidden beneath the wet towel.
“Yes. All of it.”
“I know I may be losing my mind, Gang. But now I am wondering if the others have already lost theirs.”
“You were most forceful. Surely Minister Lo wouldn’t proceed without—”
“The problem, Gang, is that I am no longer certain that I am in control of the situation.” Fa lifted the towel, turned it to the cooler side, and reapplied it to his warm, overworked forehead. He said, “If I were a philosopher, I should draw some consolation from that. But I’m a Communist, so the only consolation I can draw is that ultimately we are all only servants of the party.”
Gang was silent. Then he said, “Is the party always correct?”
“Well, the party can never be wrong. Can it?”
“It’s your head, Comrade, not the party’s.”
“I suppose. And right now it is throbbing with such intensity that I should almost wish it to be disconnected from the rest of me.”
CHAPTER 20
MAY I BE CANDID HERE?
Mr. Mc-En-tire?”
“Yes . . .” What was her name? “. . . Mary . . . Lou?”
“Mr. Tierney is here? Mr. Luke Tierney, from the New York Times?”
“Thank you. Please, show him in.”
Mary Lou, assuming that was her name, ushered Mr. Tierney of the Times into Bird’s sunny, spacious corner office with its view of the Pentagon in the distance.
It was a hastily rented and even more hastily decorated space in Crystal City, a nondescript conurbation of high-rise glass. Bird had not stinted on the decor, reasoning that a well-financed “foundation” such as Pan-Pacific Solutions ought, really, to look the part.
There were Warhol reproductions on the walls, Japanese and Chinese scrolls of misty mountains and tiny Buddhas meditating in front of their caves. A Barcelona chair. Terra-cotta horses (fake) and slender faux-jade geishas. Large, soothing color shots—the photographic equivalent of elevator music—depicting appropriate Pacific-coast scenes: cliffs, kelp, sea lions, cannery rows. In the waiting room, soothing background music of the kind heard in New Age Asian-themed spas: flute, dripping water, the flap of crane wings, hoot of owl. On the way to Bird’s office, behind a wall of glass, a conference room with a large table of bird’s-eye maple (very tasteful) where serious and expensive men and women might sit six times a year to discuss large thoughts.
The whole space occupied a quarter floor of the building. At the moment it was occupied by eighteen souls in suits, ties, white shirts, and sober footwear, all of them with strict orders to act busy, even a bit hurried, and under no circumstances to say anything to Mr. Tierney of the Times other than “Morning” or “Running late for that conference call” or “Palo Alto called again about the PowerPoint.” A simple enough script, really, for Bird’s Potemkin on the Potomac.
Necessity being the brother of invention, Bird had turned to Bewks in his hour of need.
After listening to Bird’s proposal, Bewks said, “Big brother, you know I want to help, but that’s really not the kind of living history we do.”
“Bewks. Listen to me. You are the only person who can help me. I need you to do this for me.”
“Half of these boys haven’t had their weekly bath yet. They’re fine people, believe me, but they’re basic.”
“Then take them to a car wash and run them through. And they need to shave.”
“Shave?” Bewks laughed. “Good luck with that.”
“They need to look like office workers, Bewks. Not the Confederate army.”
“The boys take pride in their facial hair. It’s part of the authenticity. Took me months to get my hair Custer-shaped.”
“I’ve got news for you and the boys. Hair grows back. Now, I’m offering good money. I don’t want to see beards, mustaches, or soul-patches. And I darn well sure don’t want to see you walking past cubicles looking like George Armstrong Custer.”
“I’ll talk to them, but I’m not making any promises.”
“Bewks. Listen to me. Think of this as a ship. If it goes down, I go down. If I go down, you go down. This nineteenth-century fantasy world of yours that I finance? Glug, glug, glug. Upkeep? Glug. Mother? Glug. I’m not asking you to restage the chariot race in Ben-Hur or the Sermon on the Mount. All I need is for your people to look like they actually live in the twenty-first century. For one hour. Two, tops. I need them in normal, boring clothes. The kind that people who work for a living actually wear. I need them not to smell. I need them not to pick their noses or hawk a gob of chewing tobacco into a wastebasket when Mr. Tierney walks by. It would be nice, also, if they did not let out the rebel yell when he arrives. I am not asking for miracles. In return, everyone gets a nice set of boring office clothes, which they can keep. Everyone gets a haircut. A barbershop shave if that’s what it’ll take. And everyone gets two hundred dollars, cash. Which is probably more than most of them make in a month, from what I’ve seen.”
“That’s true enough,” Bewks said.
“And most of all, I need them to shut up. When Mary Lou or Mary Lee or whatever her name is trolls Mr. Tierney through the office—no conversation. If he tries to speak to anyone, say, ‘Oops, there goes my cell phone.’ We are reenacting a single hour in the life of a normal, boring office. With me?”
“MR. TIERNEY, WELCOME. Please, sit. Care for some c
offee?”
“No thank you.”
“Mary . . . Lou, would you kindly hold the calls?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mc-en-tire, I shore will.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir!” Mary Lou closed the door with a bang that caused Mr. Tierney to start.
“She’s from the South.” Bird smiled. “As you may have guessed. So Angel Templeton tells me you’re doing a story on the ICC. Interesting place.”
Bird realized within a few minutes that he was in very deep doo-doo. Tierney of the Times wasted no time on persiflage; no, it was straight for the old jugular. He’d done his homework. There was little, if anything, “out there” on Pan-Pacific Solutions. Indeed, he said, “It’s almost as if it doesn’t really exist.”
“Well”—Bird smiled once more—“the board does like to keep a low profile.”
The board of Pan-Pacific, he stressed, consisted of discreet, high-worth, West Coast persons, patriotic, bound together by a concern for national security and America’s continued role as global peace-keeper.
All this Tierney of the Times listened to with the unconvinced, almost amused expression of a detective who, wearying of an improbable alibi, decides it is time to produce the murder weapon. He also had the annoying ability, Bird saw, of being able to take notes in shorthand while keeping his eyes fixed on Bird, as Bird tried to weave his grand tapestry of falsehood. Bird saw that it was useless. There was handwriting on the wall, and it said, Forget it. It’s over, and you lost.
“You were with Groepping-Sprunt for seven and a half years,” Tierney said. “Why’d you leave?”
“Oh, you know. To every season, turn, turn, turn? Thought it was time for a fresh challenge. New opportunity.”
“I see. And one week later you incorporated”—he glanced around the office—“all this?”
“Yes.” Bird said. “I’m not one to let moss grow under my feet. Ha.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 17
